The first thing you should know is that I rarely remember my dreams. No idea why–I assume I dream with the same general frequency as other humans–but unless I happen to wake up at the right time, my sleep might as well have been as empty as a TV turned to a dead channel.
I think I stole that simile from Neil Gaiman. Or is it a metaphor? I dunno, but I never metaphor I didn’t like.
Sorry. I’m on a weekend away and I’m giddy. 🙂
Anyway. Dreams. Mostly unremembered, but now and then they stick, and they stick hard. Maybe because they amuse me, maybe because I sense there’s a point behind them and I hope to recognize it, learn from it. Sometimes they’re just too weird *not* to remember.
What brings this up is, I had a couple of dreams in mid-September that stuck. The second one falls into the last category: I dreamed I was late for work. And then woke up, realized it was still the middle of the night so no, I wasn’t late for work. Back to sleep. Dreamed I was late for work. Woke up. Middle of the night. Sleep. Dreamed I was late for work…
I don’t know how many times it happened. And in this string of weird dreams, my roommate would tell me every time, No, you aren’t late for work, go back to bed.
I don’t have a roommate. I haven’t had one since Steve died, which was…hell, 18 years ago this week. Anyway, in the dream I had a roommate, not someone I presently know, no one who reminded me of anyone I’ve met. She seemed, in retrospect, rather young to be co-housing with me, so now I’m not even sure if the dream was in my present or set in my own past.
So. Dreaming I’m late for work, to a job I haven’t had in a very long time, talking with a roommate I never had? I think it qualifies for weird status.
The other one from that week, though. Not sure what to make of it.
I dreamed of my mom. I don’t recall dreaming of her since not long after she died–she was out in the front yard cussing a blue streak while hacking at an overgrown bird-of-paradise plant (hereafter b-o-p because it takes too long). Which I took as a sign, and shortly thereafter I was at the hardware store to buy a long-handled lopper (checking the description, calling loppers “long-handled”is pretty much redundant and repetitive and redundant…) and get thereby get my ass into the front yard to…prune back the overgrown b-o-p. I hated that thing. Not a huge fan of the species in the first place, and this one, stuck in a corner where Mom had put a crepe myrtle tree in not long after we moved there.
Maybe a foot and a half in front of the b-o-p. I never could figure out why she did that instead of having the bird-of-paradise REMOVED first…
Well, it was her house, and she worked like a damned dog to afford the down payment, and she liked the damned b-o-p, so she was entitled to do what she liked. And then I lost the place. Fuck.
Oh well, onward and dreamward.
Yes. Dreamed of Mom. It took place not long after I’d gotten home from Burning Man, and Mom had been my cat-sitter. It might even have been the day I got home, but my feel of the dream was, I’d gone to her place, rather than it being at my place. Anyway, I walked in, did a double take, and said, “Mom? Are you actually rockin’ a faux-hawk?”
She just grinned at me because yes, it was absolutely a faux-hawk, close-cropped on the sides but not shaved, and the center section more like a mane than a stand-up crest but with enough product in it to have some structure.
Fuckin’ neon BLUE to boot. And she looked amazing in it, and laughed like my surprised/delighted face was the payoff to the best joke ever. I noticed then she was much younger; not the age she would be if she were still alive, not even the age she was when she died, but maybe 30 years younger than that, or 40 years. Younger than I’d ever seen her except in pictures, that was certain.
That’s when I realized I was also younger than I am now, by quite a bit–that we were nearly age-mates. Then the dream changed, and we weren’t in her place anymore, we were at the beach (she loathed the beach–too sandy and she was never comfortable around water in larger quantities than a swimming pool), and she and her gal-pal were about to go on a bike ride (ask me if I ever so much as heard my mom talk about EVER riding a bike). Again, no one I recognized regardless of age, but there they stood, with the friend admiring Mom’s new ‘do, giggling like schoolgirls are reputed to do, as they mounted their bikes and rode off down the strand. I got the impression they might have been more than friends.
As far as I know, Mom was straight, but considering how poorly she chose her menfolk (at least during my lifetime, and likely before considering she was married and divorced 3 times before she married my dad), I suppose it’s possible her heart wasn’t really in it. If in fact she was either a closeted lesbian or bi, I’m just sorry she never felt able to be fully herself. No idea how I might have coped with it then, of course–I was more than a little narrow-minded until Steve came out to me–but now, I wish she had been able to find happiness of whatever sort, with whomever suited her.
The thing is, in this dream, Mom wasn’t simply happy. She was joyful, joy-filled, in a way I never saw her in life. There’s nothing I can do about it now, and even wishing things had been different for her, that she had been able to find even a bit of that joyfulness when she was alive, is moot.
I’m not sure what this means. Maybe it’s a reminder joy exists, that it can be part of my here-and-now rather than something I wish I had.
Hey, if my mom could rock an electric-blue faux-hawk, anything can happen. 🙂
Oh, and the day I had this dream? Would have been her 95th birthday. Happy belated, Mom.